Emma flew out for her ex-mother-in-law’s anniversary a day earlier than everyone else, and the moment she settled into her airplane seat, she jumped—someone had just called her name unexpectedly.
She’d been nervously twisting the strap of her handbag while waiting in the check-in queue. The anniversary—well, the *former* mother-in-law’s—was still a full day away, but Emma had deliberately booked an early flight. She knew Oliver, true to form, would drag his feet until the last minute and likely only fly out the next morning. Three years had passed since the divorce, and in all that time, they’d somehow managed to live in the same city without bumping into each other once. Now, more than ever, she wanted to preserve that fragile unspoken truce.
“Seat 12A,” she glanced at her boarding pass. Window seat—her favourite. Once on the plane, Emma pulled out a book—a new novel she’d started yesterday and couldn’t put down. A story about love, betrayal, and forgiveness. She used to avoid those plots, but time had a way of softening old wounds.
“Emma?” A familiar voice made her flinch. “Well, this is a surprise…”
She looked up slowly. Oliver stood in the aisle, gripping the handle of his carry-on. Same as ever—trim, in his favourite grey blazer. Just a little more silver at his temples than she remembered.
“You’re always late,” slipped out instead of hello.
“And you always plan everything in advance,” he grinned, fishing out his ticket. “Ah. 12B.”
Emma felt her cheeks flush. Three hours trapped beside the man she’d spent years carefully avoiding. Fate had a funny way of mocking their best-laid plans.
“I could swap with someone—” Oliver began.
“Don’t bother,” she cut in. “We’re adults.”
He nodded and took his seat. That same cologne clung to him, the scent tugging at something deep inside. How many mornings had she woken up to it?
“How’s work?” he asked once they were airborne, filling the unbearable silence.
“Good. Opened my own yoga studio,” she kept her tone even. “Still at the same place?”
“No, moved into consulting. Remember how I always talked about it?”
Of course she remembered. Just like she remembered all the arguments. She’d feared change; he’d craved it. Now, years later, they’d both gotten what they wanted. So why did her chest ache?
“Mum will be glad to see you,” Oliver said after a pause. “She still has that ceramic vase you gave her last anniversary.”
“Margaret was always…” Emma hesitated, searching for the right word, “so kind to me.”
“Even after the divorce, she said you were the best daughter-in-law she could’ve hoped for.”
Emma’s eyes stung traitorously. She reopened her book, hiding behind it.
“What are you reading?” Oliver glanced at the cover.
“*The Art of Letting Go*,” she said, and they both fell silent, struck by the irony.
The rest of the flight passed quietly, but it was a different kind of quiet—not strained, but almost comfortable, like it used to be. When the plane landed in Manchester, Oliver helped her retrieve her bag from the overhead bin.
“Sharing a cab?” he offered. “We’re headed the same way.”
Emma hesitated. Three years ago, they’d parted certain they’d never cross paths again. Yet here they were, and the world hadn’t ended.
“Fine,” she nodded. “But I’m navigating. You always argue with Google Maps.”
Oliver laughed, and the sound sent a flutter through her. Maybe sometimes you had to let go of the past just enough to let the present breathe.
Stepping off the plane, she realised—for the first time in years—she didn’t regret this accidental meeting. Ahead lay the party, awkward family glances, and a feast. But now she knew: they’d manage. After all, they always had.
The cab wound through Manchester’s evening streets. True to her word, Emma kept an eye on the route, occasionally correcting the driver. Oliver sat beside her, only her handbag separating them.
“Turn right here,” she said, and Oliver smiled—she’d always remembered the way to his parents’ better than he did.
“Remember our first visit to Mum’s?” he asked suddenly. “You were so nervous…”
“Obviously!” Emma huffed. “I changed outfits three times. Wanted to make a good impression.”
“And then spilled gravy all over yourself.”
They laughed, and for a moment, time rewound. But then the cab stopped outside the familiar house, and the spell broke in the twilight.
Margaret met them at the door, clasping her hands. “You came together? What a lovely surprise!”
“Ran into each other on the plane,” Emma explained quickly, spotting the hope in her ex-mother-in-law’s eyes.
“Come in, come in! Emma, dear, I’ve put you in your old room—”
Emma froze. *Her* room—the upstairs bedroom she and Oliver had always shared during visits. Where morning sun painted patterns on the wallpaper and the old apple tree stood just outside the window…
“Mum, maybe I’ll take the guest room—” Oliver started.
“Absolutely not!” Margaret cut in. “That’s where the extra guests will be tomorrow. Emma’s in the master, you’re in your childhood room. Just like always.”
*Just like always.* The words echoed in Emma’s mind. Nothing was *like always* anymore, but no one argued with Margaret.
The evening passed in a blur of preparations. Emma helped cook while Oliver sorted through old boxes in the attic—something his mother had been nagging him about for ages. They carefully avoided being alone together, though under one roof, that proved tricky.
That night, Emma lay awake. The bed felt too big, too empty. Footsteps creaked next door—Oliver, apparently also restless. She recognised the rhythm: three steps to the window, four back. He’d always paced like that when thinking.
Then silence. Emma turned toward the window. The apple tree rustled, and for a second, it felt like the past three years had been a long dream. But no—this was real. They were here, under one roof, simultaneously the same and entirely different.
Morning brought the smell of fresh coffee and Margaret humming in the kitchen. Emma went down first, helping set the table. When Oliver appeared, slightly rumpled and sheepish, they exchanged a quick nod. Over coffee, they talked about the weather, the party—everything and nothing at once. There was something painfully familiar in the ordinariness of it.
By five, Margaret’s house was full of guests. Emma circulated with appetisers, navigating the crowd effortlessly, as if no time had passed. Oliver mingled, occasionally glancing her way.
“Emma, darling,” Margaret caught her in the hallway, pulling her into a tight hug. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Happy anniversary,” Emma handed her a bouquet and a small box. “A bracelet—handmade. Like the one you admired at that jeweller’s in York?”
Tears glistened in the older woman’s eyes. “You remembered.”
They sat in the study. Margaret took Emma’s hand. “I always thought you and Oliver rushed into divorce. Both so stubborn…”
“Margaret—”
“No, I won’t meddle. But… he’s changed, Emma. So have you. Sometimes it takes time to understand things.”
The party rolled on—speeches, music, even dancing. Emma kept catching herself searching for Oliver in the crowd. And he, it seemed, kept looking back.
Late that night, when most guests had left, they stepped onto the old veranda. Oliver handed her a glass of wine.
“Remember when we planned our future out here?”
Emma nodded. It was here they’d decided to marry.
“I panicked,” Oliver admitted suddenly. “When you brought up kids, a house… I got scared and buried myself in work.”
“And I didn’t understand your fear,” she said softly. “Pushed too hard. Thought if we didn’t act immediately, we’d lose something important.”
“Neither of us knew how to listen.”
Stars glittered above them, same as years ago. Music drifted from inside.
“I’ve been seeing a therapist,” Emma confessed. “She said we often ruin relationships not because we stop loving each other, but because we never learned to love ourselves.”
Oliver swirled his wine thoughtfully. “Sounds about right. I’ve figured out a few things too. Like how coming home to an empty flat isn’t the victory I thought it’d be.”
“No one else for you, then?” she asked carefully.
“Tried. Never stuck. You?”
“Same.”
They fell quiet. Apple blossoms drifted down, catching the porch light.
“Maybe we could try again?” Oliver said slowly. “Not jumping back in. Just… talking. No pressure to fix or forget.”
Emma met his eyes. The same hesitation she felt was mirrored there.
“One step at a time,” she agreed.
Margaret’s voice called them in for tea. They exchanged a smile—conspirators in this fragile new beginning. The night stretched ahead
